


broken-winged birds

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Drunk Sex, F/F, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Multi, Threesome - F/F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-27
Updated: 2012-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-06 02:14:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/413586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He opens his mouth beneath hers, allows her to touch her tongue to his, her attentions more practiced than they once would have been but still largely inexpert and untried. It’s Alayne who knows of kissing, Alayne who learned with Mya. Who lets Mya lick at her neck now, who tangles her hand in Mya’s dark curls so like Jon’s and holds her close. This is Alayne, but Jon says, “Sansa,” and for the briefest moment she hates him for not allowing them both their illusion.</p><p>“There is no Sansa here,” she says, ignoring Mya’s confusion, ignoring the compassion in Jon’s gaze. “Only Alayne. We are only bastard girls to make another bastard welcome.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	broken-winged birds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thefairfleming](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefairfleming/gifts).



> For the kinkmeme prompt: _Jon/Mya Stone/Sansa (as Alayne Stone). Jon comes to the Vale, and the two girls decide to make their fellow bastard feel particularly welcome. Up to you whether or not Jon knows Alayne is Sansa!_

It’s Alayne, not Sansa. That’s what she tells herself, what she chants in her head over and over. It’s Alayne who is too drunk on wine and some clear spirit that Mya had unearthed, a spirit strong enough to make the room spin and their hands wander. It’s Alayne who leans too close to Mya at her side – another Stone like Alayne, Mya Stone, which in some curious way makes them sisters though they’re bastards still – Alayne who allows her bastard sister to tuck a kiss behind her ear the way she sometimes has before when they’ve been drunk and lonely and close. The man who watches them is another girl’s bastard brother; not Alayne’s, only another girl’s. He is not her bastard brother, Jon Snow, for Alayne Stone has no brothers.

She knew he recognized her from the second he saw her. Myranda Royce was on his arm, introducing him to her guests and telling them of his search, of the young sister he was traveling Westeros to find. She did not introduce him to Alayne, nor to Mya – the missing girl is nobly born and bred – but his eyes found them anyway and it’s Sansa’s heart that leapt rather than Alayne’s, Sansa who wanted nothing more than to run and throw herself into his arms, to cry and cry and cry that he’d come for her. Sansa had done no such thing, though; Alayne had pushed her aside and accepted a dance from some man whose face she can’t remember anymore, and she’d mostly managed not to stare at Jon the whole time. Alayne’s heart didn’t break at the confusion on Jon Snow’s face, but Sansa’s did.

The feast has burned itself down to embers now, guests retired to their rooms or secluded in rooms not their own, strangers made into something close to friends for the evening. Mya had taken to Jon immediately once he’d thrown off his hosts and sought out the bastard girls, his eyes lingering on Sansa’s when she’d given her name as Alayne Stone. Mya had taken to him and he to her, so quickly that it was both Alayne and Sansa who felt a spark of jealousy, but only Sansa who knew a dread chill of fear. Don’t leave without me, she thought, the words screaming in her head even as she kept them from her voice and face, wearing only the placid, impenetrable mask she’d perfected, keeping that mask in place though she saw Jon’s questions, his confusion and pain. He thinks I didn’t want him to come, she’d realized, he thinks I wanted another, anyone but my bastard brother. So she’d clung to his arm when he offered it to escort them to their room, she’d put her head to his shoulder and slipped one small hand into his, and had been so reassured by the immediate squeeze of his hand around her own that she’d stumbled.

“Come in for a cup of wine,” she’d said when he would have turned to go. She won’t let him leave her, not now. Not again. Not for a second.

They’ve gone from giggling to gasping, from touches to caresses, though she isn’t sure how. Everything feels so hazy now, floating loose and soft-edged like something in a dream, aching like a pain that doesn’t truly hurt. This is nothing new for Alayne and Mya, easing each other’s loneliness, giving comfort and company in touches and kisses that skirt past the line of innocence. Jon is new, though. He’s more familiar than anything she’s seen in years, and still he’s new, a man more than a boy now, scarred outside and in. Well, she understands what it is to be scarred so, Alayne and Sansa both.

She’s no excuse for why she leans forward to touch her lips to his. Maybe it’s only that she could not greet him as Sansa, could not hold his dear face in both hands and make sure he was real. He’s real in her hands now, though, the bristle of his beard making her skin tingle, his eyes dark and soft, and she’s glad it’s he that’s come for her, so glad, and she shows him so with her kiss.

I am a bastard too, now, she wants to whisper to him. Now we are almost the same person, Jon, let us be almost the same person, let us never be two separate people again. He opens his mouth beneath hers, allows her to touch her tongue to his, her attentions more practiced than they once would have been but still largely inexpert and untried. It’s Alayne who knows of kissing, Alayne who learned with Mya. Who lets Mya lick at her neck now, who tangles her hand in Mya’s dark curls so like Jon’s and holds her close. This is Alayne, but Jon says, “Sansa,” and for the briefest moment she hates him for not allowing them both their illusion.

“There is no Sansa here,” she says, ignoring Mya’s confusion, ignoring the compassion in Jon’s gaze. “Only Alayne. We are only bastard girls to make another bastard welcome.”

She doesn’t know why he lets her bear him to the floor, why he opens his mouth again beneath hers. Why his hands band her ribcage, why she feels him hard against her belly. But then she thinks he’s not the same person anymore either, and she doesn’t care, she won’t care. It is Alayne who allows her to do this but Sansa who needs her to, Sansa who needs to feel him alive and real, Sansa who wants and needs to be wanted in return. She’s waited so long. So long it seemed they’d all forgotten her. But Jon has not forgotten.

The bed is beneath her somehow, though she doesn’t remember standing, doesn’t remember all three of them moving. But they’re all there, tangled together on the feather mattress, piled atop the furs. Sansa barely knows who she touches or who it is touching her. She only knows she couldn’t bear for either to stop. For the first time, she wonders what will happen to Mya when Jon takes Alayne away to become only Sansa again, and her heart clutches painfully. It is Mya who’s helped her survive these long months that may have become years by now, Mya who helps her even now, her breasts at Sansa’s back, her arms around Sansa’s waist helping her guide Jon inside her – gods, Jon is inside her, and she is only Sansa now, she has no excuse for such madness. It is Mya who shows Sansa how to move her hips, Mya who slides one hand down to find the place Sansa is most sensitive, who touches and caresses Sansa – both of them, Sansa and Jon, where their bodies come together – who helps Jon push Sansa up to some new peak where she hangs, trembling and quaking and crying out, until she topples and falls into feelings she never knew existed, not like this, not as strong as all this, his release pulsing hot and sweet within her.

“It’s unfair,” she whispers, as she lies at Jon’s side, her body still quaking and cooling. She doesn’t explain, doesn’t need to with her fingers walking down Mya’s belly to find the same spot Mya’s fingers had found on Sansa. Mya moans gladly, opens her thighs to Sansa’s touch in a way that Sansa finds scandalous and wonderful and reassuring – she is not alone in this, she is not the only one who wants – and Jon, sweetest Jon, adds his touch to her own. His hand tangles with Sansa’s as they bring Mya to that same peak of pleasure, and when she’s shivering and shaking same as Sansa had, Jon twines his fingers with Sansa’s and holds her hand tightly enough that she can imagine he’ll never let go.

They’re sleeping when she wakes from sleep visions, not bad enough to call nightmare but not sweet enough to call dream. She hasn’t woken them. She’d learned to keep still in her sleep, even with the worst nightmares, so as not to ever wake Sweetrobin beside her. The stone floors are cold under her feet when she slips from the bed. Her gown is across the room, her shift nowhere to be found. So she takes up Jon’s shirt, holds it to her face to breathe in the scent of him before slipping it over her head. She’s tall enough now that it almost fits, though the last time she could have stolen a shirt from him, it would have fit her as if a dress, reaching her knees with the sleeves dangling so far past her fingertips as to be comical. They’re so much older now. The world is so very different from what it was.

Ghost is curled on the hearth, his white fur glowing at the edges in the light of the fire. Seeing him slices through her heart; it feels as though she’s been run through with a sword. She’s not seen a direwolf since Lady, and oh, she’s missed them more than almost anything. She should let him adjust to her, should offer a hand for him to sniff and allow him to come to her, but she finds she can’t and she’s grateful beyond measure when he permits her to bury her face in his ruff, his body still and warm and reassuring, calm even when she begins to cry.

She doesn’t hear Jon rise from the bed, doesn’t hear his footsteps on the floor. But he’s there behind her, he’s stroking her hair and kissing her shoulder and holding her the way she’s wanted to be held for so long, so very long. It only increases her tears, only makes her push her face into Ghost’s fur and clutch her fingers all the harder. He came for her. She never thought anyone would, but Jon did, Jon’s here, and it’s all too much to bear.

“Sansa,” he whispers into her hair. “Sweetest Sansa.” She half expects him to make her empty promises, promises none could ever keep, to say no one will ever hurt her again, that she’ll always be safe. But he makes no such promises, only murmurs her name and holds her, and she’s struck again by this man he’s become. By how he’s so much like her father.

“I’m glad it was you,” she tells him, turning from Ghost to bury her face at his neck. “I’m so glad it was you.” His arms close around her tightly enough to drive the breath from her lungs, but she doesn’t mind. Breathing is incidental. He holds her until she stops crying, until she stops shaking. And then he holds her a little longer.

“Come back to bed, Sansa,” he says, not in command but in invitation, and Alayne may be a bastard girl, but Sansa is a lady yet and she’d never refuse such an invitation. Come back to bed, he says, and that’s just what she does.


End file.
